


just me and the music

by misszuipperips



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Baby Driver AU, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Car Accidents, Car Chases, Fake AH Crew, Gen, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 12:38:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11646732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misszuipperips/pseuds/misszuipperips
Summary: Jeremy drives. He's a driver as a hobby, until he steals and sinks a very shiny chrome Adder that lands him in what some would consider an excellent position, but most would consider the fucking nightmare scenario.Then he drives for the Fake AH Crew, and quickly finds himself taking part of the gang shit he told himself he was gonna avoid when he'd landed in Los Santos in the first place.(a baby driver inspired fahc fic bc i can't stop sucking baby driver's dick, clearly.)





	just me and the music

Jeremy was a _driver_. He lived for the race; for the freedom that came with sitting behind the wheel of a car. He hadn’t driven like that for a while because of some offences from Boston (unsurprisingly linked to the passion to take a fast car and drive it like it was meant to be driven—somehow, the police force weren’t big fans of people going 100 in a 60 zone) that meant he’d had to uproot and go find work elsewhere. He sold whatever stuff he had and bought a plane ticket out to Los Santos after an offer from college friends (his old roommates, who didn’t judge him about the car stuff because they lived in Los Santos) for him to move in with them again because he’d have more luck working in a city where 90% of the populace had a record. He went and found himself a shithole job in this shithole city, and he told himself that it was better than getting involved in gang business.

But the itch to drive— _really_ drive, not just idle around the city—burned in him after a few months of trying to make it legit, so he stole the fanciest car he could find and drove it until the tyres popped and then he rolled it into the docks in Vespucci, grinning as it sank. He was listening to Killer Queen, volume turned up so high it felt like it was just him and the car and the rest of the world didn’t exist. He shoved his hands in his pockets as the sun set, watching as the chrome Adder sunk and slowly disappeared, no longer glinting ostentatiously in the light. He kicked a rock in after it, and then realised he’d have to walk home. _Fuck_.

He ended up taking the bus, trying not to bounce his leg in a fit of restless energy as he slowly made his way back. That prickling need to drive is gone, and he knows that Los Santos is so crime ridden that it’s not going to be a shocking or important find that there’s a car in the waters in Vespucci’s canals. He told Matt that he’d been out at the gym, because Matt was the least likely individual to question the specifics of why Jeremy had been at the gym in jeans and a hoodie. Gyms were, as far as Matt was concerned, a labyrinthian hell in which any and all activities occurred.

Everything stays normal. Just a blip in the humdrum repetition of his new life here.

 

Well. Everything stays normal for about a week. Longer than it should’ve been, all things considered.

They find him at work. He’s a janitor, because as much as he wanted to be a mechanic he knew he’d eventually cave and joyride a vehicle. He’s trying to be legit—he promised Matt and Trevor that he’d stay out of trouble after he moved in with them after Boston became impossible to find work in. He’s allowed to listen to his music because he works the night shifts that no one else wants and because the place is shitty enough that the boss doesn’t care what he does as long as he cleaned. He slides across the tiles of the bathroom, singing along to Come On Eileen and swinging the mop around like it’s a dance partner.

“With you in that dress my thoughts I confess verge on _dirty_ ,” he sang along, spinning around enthusiastically.

Then he quickly righted himself because he realised he wasn’t alone. The song hit the instrumental, but he felt his stomach drop as he took in the people staring at him.

The thing about crime being rampant in Los Santos meant that there were always going to be 24/7 news stories on the biggest and baddest criminals running wild. So, coming face-to-face with the two leading members of the Fake AH Crew nearly made Jeremy shit himself in straight up fear.

Well, at least he was already in the bathroom.

Jeremy could intuit from the fact that the boss of the most infamous gang in the city was wheezing with laughter that they’d also just seen his impromptu dance and song routine. At least the woman in the Hawaiian shirt (Jack, second-in-command, with an impressive skill at driving and flying that Jeremy had noted from the news reports) had the good grace to restrain herself from laughing.

He swallowed once and hit pause. He never missed a beat, but he already his heartbeat thunderous in his ears as he took in the guns that they held. Geoff was trying—and failing—to collect himself.

“A-anything I can help you with?” he asked, nervously pulling his mop closer.

“Jesus Christ, Jack, this is the kid you were talking about?” Geoff wheezed out, doubled over and pointing at him with the hand holding the gun.

Jeremy edged back a bit, flicking his eyes nervously between the two criminals. It wasn’t like there any other ways out of a bathroom, and his only defences were slippery tiles and a mop versus at least two guns.

She sighed, and he wasn’t sure if it was a death sentence or not.

“Yeah, that’s the one. Listen, Geoff, you should’ve seen him. Didn’t give a shit that it was Michael’s car; he just drove like a madman. He’s _good_.”

Jeremy kept quiet. Probably should’ve guessed that a car that fancy would belong to gang business. All shiny pretty things were, in Los Santos.

Geoff finally straightened up, coughing a couple times to clear his throat. The smile dropped, and the gun hung limply at his side now.

“Well, kiddo, you just got yourself a job. Good thing too, because you also just got yourself a lotta debt,” Geoff announced, taking a couple steps forward to get all up in Jeremy’s personal space.

“I—uh—I’m guessing this isn’t an opt-in/opt-out kinda thing?” he stuttered nervously, feeling sweat drip down his back uncomfortably. “What’s the job?”

“You’re our new driver,” Jack chimed in, pulling out her phone to check a text. “We call you, you step outside your apartment, and we’ll pick you up. You’ll be told what you’re going to drive and where you need to go from there. Anything important we should know about?”

“I like to listen to music when I drive,” Jeremy answered, not sure whether to focus on Jack or on Geoff (who was still looming in his face). “Helps me focus. Let me drive with my iPod and I’ll be fine.”

Geoff stepped back at that, a grin on his face.

“Well, that was easy,” he all but crowed, slapping Jeremy on the shoulder. “See you soon, bud.”

Jeremy got the distinct feeling that he’d gotten himself in one hell of a sticky situation. Even Boston wasn’t like this. He looked down at the floor, trying to keep his breathing even as he forced himself to get back to work.

He hit play, but somehow the music felt distant. He felt sick.

(He didn’t notice Geoff slipping and nearly landing on his ass because of the slippery tiles; nor did he see Jack finally lose it and start laughing as she stumbled out of the bathroom as well.)

He didn’t tell his roommates about what happened, and brushed them off by saying that he must’ve gotten something from a co-worker.

 

He got a call from an anonymous number a couple days later, and when he picked it up he was met with a now-familiar voice.

“Be outside in 5,” Jack said flatly, and then hung up before he could even say hello.

He grabbed his headphones and his iPod, and then his jacket, and then he briefly said goodbye to the closed doors of his roommates’ rooms. As an afterthought, he quickly put on a pair of shitty free sunglasses he’d gotten at an event back in Boston, and then he was off. He sprinted down the stairs—not wanting to wait for the elevator when he was on a time limit—and jogged out to the street. He put his headphones in and took a deep breath, recovering from the sudden burst of activity. He hit play and let music fill the time it took for the branded Fake AH car to pull up in front of him. He couldn’t see through the tinted windows, but the back-passenger door swung open and he saw a lanky man stumble out. It took Jeremy a few moments to place him as Gavin (one he’d had to google to get the name of after he realised he was indefinitely working for them), and when Gavin waved him over he mechanically walked to the car and then slid into the middle seat in the back. Gavin hopped back in, squishing Jeremy something awful against two of Los Santos’ most dangerous criminals.

He hoped they couldn’t notice his sweating as he gave Jack a jaunty wave.

He kept the volume at a level where he could hear what they were saying, but loud enough that he could ignore them if he wanted.

 

“What’s his problem, aside from the ‘not speaking’ shit?” Michael asked, crossing his arms.

“Not having Spotify premium,” Ray answered under his breath, leaning back in his chair and then yelping when Ryan elbowed him for interrupting. “I’m just lightening the mood!”

“Doesn’t Ryan already have the position of weirdo that doesn’t speak? Why’d you hire another one?” Gavin asked, throwing a balled-up piece of paper at the silent Jeremy.

Clearly Michael wasn’t going to get his answer with the peanut gallery chiming in, and Geoff just dragged his hands down his face.

“Like I said, Jack’s not gonna be able to drive this one so I hired another driver. She recommended this kid, and I trust Jack when she says that she’s got someone that can help us. Maybe he’s just shy, but I’m not paying you to find out his life story,” Geoff announced, continuing to speak at a louder volume as soon as he saw Gavin open his mouth. “He’s gonna drive you to the Maze Bank and he’s gonna drive you out. If there’s an issue after, we can deal with it.”

“He fuckin’ sunk my Adder, Geoff. I feel like that’s an issue we could sort out now,” Michael said, walking over and clapping his hands on Jeremy’s shoulders.

Jeremy tried not to react, but Michael startled him enough that one of his earbuds fell out. He made an annoyed noise and went to put it back in, but Michael grabbed it from his hands and put it to his ear instead.

“He’s fucking listening to Tequila, Geoff! He hasn’t been listening to a goddamn thing we’ve been saying!”

Geoff shrugged at him, raising his hands as though there was nothing he could do.

“Jack recommended him, Michael. She said she saw him driving your Adder like nothing else she’d seen, so you can work out your personal issues after our business is done. Otherwise we’re back to square one—we need a driver, and I don’t see anyone volunteering alternates.”

With that, the whole situation was considered a done deal. Jeremy offered Michael a weak smile, and put his other headphone back in. It wasn’t like he wanted to be here driving for them. He just needed to pay off his debt for wrecking the Adder and then he was out of here and back to his shithole job in this shithole city.

No gang business, he’d told himself when he’d landed. Look how that was turning out, past Jeremy. Really good job on that one, bud.

 

Jeremy ignored the crew as much as possible on the drive to the job, letting them banter amongst each other. He wasn’t part of them; didn’t want to be. He was their driver.

He pulled up to Maze Bank, cueing them to go when the first sound of guitar started after he pressed play on his iPod. Beastie Boys blared on, loud enough to drown out the sounds of traffic—No Sleep Till Brooklyn played as the rest of the Fake AH ran into the Maze Bank and Ray watched from a nearby rooftop. Jeremy waited until they closed the front doors of the bank to start jamming, tapping against the wheel to the beat, miming along to the lyrics. He bobbed his head to the beat softly at first, getting more into it as he flicked his eyes (hidden by the ostentatious sunglasses Gavin had indelicately shoved on his head to make him ‘match the crew’) over towards the bank and then his surroundings. He turned on the windscreen wipers, feeling like he was in a music video, waving his arms along with the wipers, actively singing now. When he heard the distinctive sound of gunfire, he turned up the volume, smacking the horn as the Beastie Boys yelled _no sleep till Brooklyn!_

He was then suddenly very aware of himself as pedestrians started looking at the source of the abrupt noise, and he fiddled with his hands awkwardly. He didn’t have to look to know that Ray was now looking at him through the scope of the rifle, so he pulled an apologetic grimace and forced himself to stick with just tapping to the beat. Well, until the guitar solo started as the crew came running out of the bank, and he had to focus on the task at hand. He felt somewhat robbed of getting to air guitar along with the solo, but he revved the engine as they all but dived into the backseat and passenger seat of the car, reversing out of his park and then slamming into drive as the Beastie Boys screamed in his ear. He couldn’t hear a word that everyone else was saying, and as he flicked his eyes in the mirrors to scope out the situation he didn’t bother reading their lips to gauge the mood.

 

The song stopped. The sound of the others filtered in—frantic words and the banging of someone’s fist against his chair ( _not to the beat it wasn’t rhythmic and it was gonna throw him off_ )—and then filtered back out as the next song began in full. He needed the perfect song for this and as Bang Bang came on, he tuned out the distractions and focused on weaving between cars. He managed to jackknife a truck as he cut ahead of it, watching in the rear mirror as the truck’s trailer spilled across the road to form a temporary blockade.

Gavin cheered as he did this, and Ryan leaned out the window to let loose on some of the car behind them. Ray looked like he was ready to check out now that his part of the job was done, and Jack was waiting for them in a helicopter at the location he had to go to.

Once they cleared the city, it became easier. They took some scenic routes, tearing across the countryside (and even going off-road as required), leaving a trail of destruction and exploded cop cars behind them as they reached their checkpoint. Jack waved at them from the pilot’s seat, and as they clambered into the helicopter and strapped in, Michael threw a grenade at their getaway car. They lifted off with a lot more haste than Jack had been wanting, as she yelled at Michael over the intercom as they flew away before the explosion could take them out as well.

Michael just laughed, and then they all joined in. Even Jeremy, who even tolerated the friendly arm-punching with a smile and not the wince he felt was warranted at the force some of them had.

 

 

After the job was done, he got his tiny sliver of payment and drove back to the apartment. They’d taken 90% of his cut to go towards his debt, but he wasn’t too pissed. At least he was getting something out of this outside of just a continued existence. He switched playlists, and when he burst through the door to the apartment he was met by a rather harried-looking Matt who he twirled around, dipping him as Darlin’ by Beach Boys played in his unofficial good vibes playlist. No injuries after dunking the very expensive car of a Fake AH member, and he got to drive the way he’d been wanting to ever since he left Boston. Even if he was still in a lot of debt and was getting involved in gang shit, he was riding a pretty good high right now. He ignored Matt’s questions and Trevor’s confused staring as he danced along to the Beach Boys, humming along.

 

It became a semi-regular thing: he told Matt and Trevor (whichever one was home from their mysterious jobs that he didn’t pry about, and they didn’t pry about his new activities) that he was heading out, and then he went and became an accomplice in some pretty notorious crimes. He justified it to himself, on the times where he looked in the mirrors and watched the crew mow down innocents and police officers alike, that he wasn’t the one doing the killing. He had a debt to repay, and it was either drive or join the bodies on the side of the road. He just gritted his teeth and turned up his music.

 

One time, he’s sent on a scouting drive with Ray to look for good rooftops for their next heist. Jeremy doesn’t speak, and Ray’s not particularly talkative because he’s not driven by the need to fill the silence the way Gavin does. Jeremy obeys the speed limit, ignoring the itch to change to a song with a higher BPM and do burnouts while Ray clambers up ladders to judge whether they have a good enough angle. He loops Harlem Shuffle, bobbing his head along idly and tapping the beat into the wheel as he waits.

Ray was taking his sweet fucking time with looking at a goddamn roof. Eventually some individuals started to approach the car admiringly at first, and then a little hungrily once they realised it was a very nice car and one person sitting inside it. Jeremy ignored them until they tapped on the window, which he peered at them through and then turned back to tapping to the music.

When he heard the sound of scraping against the side of the car, he closed his eyes in irritation and took a deep breath. _Well, then_. If they wanted to cause a little excitement, he could take them on. He wasn’t sure what Ray was doing, but he didn’t want these idiots scratching up the car.

He opened the door and got out, clicking over to a new tune as he did so.

“Oops—sorry ‘bout the car, bro,” one of them said mockingly, dragging his keys along the side of the car.

Jeremy’s hands twitched—he didn’t have any guns on him and while he could certainly fistfight them, he didn’t want to get too fucked up if he had to do more driving.

He raised a hand dramatically, making a finger gun at the guy. He mimed lining up a shot and then firing to the beat of the song, only to jump when a fraction of a second later the guy collapsed with a real bullet clean through his skull.

The two other guys that had been posing for a fight to start were startled as well, and Jeremy couldn’t help but grin. Jeremy mimed along to the lyrics— _hey, I’m gonna get you too_ —and fired another imaginary shot at the next idiot. He was less visibly surprised when another bullet tore through and killed the next guy, and when he aimed at the last guy he could hear Freddie Mercury telling him that, well, _another one bites the dust_.

He twirled around as the instrumental played, unaware of the pooling blood beneath the bodies, taking a step and then sliding back over to the car. He hopped back in, nodding his head to the bassline as Ray clambered down the ladder and got into the passenger’s seat.

“This one’s good. I’ll tell Geoff,” Ray told him, as if that whole scene hadn’t happened.

Jeremy backs up and then drives back towards the penthouse. They leave the bodies there. Jeremy’s sure that someone will be sent to clean it up.

When they get there, Ray ignores him and beelines to tell Geoff that he’s found his rooftop (and also that they may need clean up). After standing awkwardly at the doorway for a bit, Jeremy spots Jack and makes his way over.

“The car’s got a scratch,” he muttered to her, ducking his head and trying not to visibly appear nervous. “Some guys came up and scratched it, but Ray took care of ‘em.”

He nervously scratched the back of his head and then readjusted his headphones, turning his music down to hear her response.

Jack sighed and ran a hand through her hair.

“We’ll get it fixed. It’s not your fault, but this is going to change our plans a bit. We’ll need to be more cautious when we run this because the area’s going to be hot after these guys show up as missing,” she said, pulling out one of her many phones to take a note. “I’ll tell Geoff. You’re done for the day. Go head home.”

She waved him away, and he quickly left before someone (Gavin) could start asking him questions or trap him in a conversation. As he reached the lobby and walked out to his own car, it started to sink in that he’d just killed 3 men. By proxy, technically, but Ray killed them because Jeremy wanted them to be dead.

He sentenced 3 men to death. The car was idling. These were the facts.

He swallowed back the bile crawling up his throat, and turned on his upbeat playlist. It was hard to feel guilt-ridden and think about the bodies of the assholes that had scratched the car when ABBA was playing.

He tried not to be fake deep and read into the chorus of Does Your Mother Know, because what his mother knew about his lifestyle of driving for a prominent gang wasn’t something he wanted to think about. He also wasn’t a young girl flirting with a famous member of a hit band. Not relatable content. He looped the song, forcing himself to hum along as he waited in traffic to get home.

 

The job was postponed after the three men ended up being declared missing. He wasn’t sure whether he was glad or not, and he tried to stop himself from thinking about how incredible it felt to watch them die to the sound of Queen. Like it was a surreal music video. It was probably the coolest thing he’d ever done, and that thought made him retch into his bin as he realised that he was a pretty shit person for thinking that.

 

Jeremy never let it affect him on the job. With each new job, he would have slightly different hair. It became a thing—he would dye part of his hair each time they did a new job. Eventually, his hair was bright orange on the top and hot purple on the sides. It caused the whole crew to burst out in laughter, which he somewhat resented based on the fact that he’d thought it would look super cool when he dyed it at 3am.

That said, Matt and Trevor had both laughed at him when he’d run out of the bathroom to show them. After they recovered themselves, they had told him it was a good look—unique, but good. He’d grinned. That was the look he’d been going for.

 

Another small job was essentially where he played chauffer to Gavin, who poked him in the side and peppered him with questions until Jeremy cracked and replied. The job wasn’t exactly memorable aside from Gavin calling him Lil J—a nickname that spread across the crew, a series of jokes that made him feel like maybe he belonged here, with them, with Los Santos, after all.

 

Sometimes Jack would let him go for a joyride in her fancier vehicles—the cars she wouldn’t let Gavin even touch for fear he would somehow ruin it with his terrible coordination and utter lack of skills. They raced around the empty racetrack, laughing as they drifted around each corner and pushed the cars to their limits.

 

Geoff would actually ask him for his opinions on the routes for deliveries—and while Jeremy was only now familiar with the roads of Los Santos, it felt good to know that Geoff thought he knew enough to actually be helpful.

 

Still, all good things must come to an end. Jeremy was a fucking ace driver, if he did say so himself (and he did, when he looked in the mirror, and finger-gunned at himself until he could ignore the fact that he still couldn’t forget the sight of Ryan unloading a shotgun into someone for fun), but he wasn’t a god. Everybody makes mistakes; everybody has those days. That was his thought as he crawled out of the wreck that was the getaway car.

The job had gone bad from the start. Ryan had gone ham on killing the civilians in the building rather than holding them hostage, and Ray had missed a shot on a cop that landed a hit on Michael. Jeremy sat in the car, watching the chaos unfold like a Jenga tower collapsing. Gavin tripped on his untied shoelaces (and Jack had tiredly told him not half an hour ago that _she wasn’t his mother and that he needed to tie his own damn shoes_ ), and took Geoff down in a desperate scrabble to get upright. Michael was stumbling after the hit from the cop, blood oozing out the sleeve of his leather jacket. They barely managed to make it to the car in time for the track to change on Jeremy’s iPod. Ray had slid down the ladder and landed badly in his haste to get to the car, limping hurriedly as he clambered in the back.

Jeremy revved the engine, taking off before Ryan properly closed the door. Some of the money flew out the open door, but Jeremy didn’t hesitate. Ryan slammed the door shut finally, and Jeremy focused on the road.

The song was wrong—it didn’t fit right—he was meant to have had time to change to the right track but they’d fucked it up and now he was left off the beat and unsure of what to do. He glanced in the back and felt ill seeing Michael bleeding everywhere, and Geoff smacked him in the arm and yelled at him to _floor it, just fucking find a ramp off if you have to, we gotta lose the cops now!_

In any other situation, he would’ve appreciated the song that was playing, but right now it just felt like an omen. As he fucked up a turn and dinged off another car, he tried to ignore the Beastie Boys yelling that this was a sabotage.

It felt almost too well-timed that everything went to shit as the instrumental ended and the Beastie Boys screamed as he hit the caltrops. _Fucking caltrops_. He couldn’t swerve fast enough with everyone yelling in his ears; couldn’t focus with one lens popped out of a borrowed pair of sunglasses; couldn’t breathe when Ryan yanked out his headphones from his ears to scream at him to fucking _move_. The car rolled as he tried to handbrake turn at the last second, and then he watched in horror as a concrete pylon rapidly approached.

Then everything went black.

After a while, he wondered if being dead meant that it hurt like a fucking bitch the whole time. He opened his eyes blearily, and he lifted his head from the airbag. Guess he was still alive. Well. He put his headphones back on so he could find a rhythm again, feeling like the world was tilting and dipping around him. His iPod was still working, as Hells Bells started to chime. Blood was oozing from his nose and he had all kinds of whiplash, but the front of the car was wrapped around a concrete pylon and he had to get out.

The persistent tolling of the bells felt like a death sentence in his head as he dragged himself across the tarmac of the road to hide from the wall of police cars.  The discordant wailing of police sirens couldn’t be tuned out, but he dragged himself behind the car without being spotted. He heard, muffled as it was, the sound of the cops calling over their radios to say that the crew had been stopped. He rested his head against the dented metal of the car, and then he checked his iPod for damage. It was scuffed up and had a massive crack in the screen. Well, at least he was alive. He took a deep breath, and he pressed skip.

 

He scrabbled up to his feet as the next song started, horns blaring in his ears. It was a joke song that Matt had put on with a dare to try and feel cool while listening to it—as he hid behind the wreck of the car, trying to match the tempo of the new beat he thought to himself, _there’s no fucking way in hell I’m gonna die listening to Dr. Worm._

When the lyrics hit, he peered over the remains of the car and tried to assess the situation. There were cops starting to approach, but if he ran across he could easily hop in one of the many cars slowing down to try and see what was happening.

In his ear, he could hear TMBG telling him _we’ll play the_ solo so he collected himself, and when the next horn section hit he pushed himself to run as fast as he could, shoes slapping against the pavement as he ran up to an idling car on the highway (trying desperately to ignore the yelling of cops and the pinging of bullets around him), sliding across the hood to open the driver’s door and yank some random civilian out.

 

He felt worse when Dr. Worm clicked over to Nowhere to Run as he strapped himself in, throwing out the former driver’s backpack and flooring it because the police were aiming at his tyres and while this car was decent, it clearly wasn’t required to go through all the upgrades that the Fake AH cars go through so the wheels weren’t bulletproof. The back window of the car shatters, and he weaved as best he could through a busy highway, ignoring the chorus of angry drivers and the clogging guilt in his throat at the fact that he didn’t check to see if the rest of the crew were okay before he legged it. He waited (as much as one can wait while they speed across a winding series of overpass highway roads) until he was under the cover of another over pass to pull in front of another vehicle and force them to stop. He ran out and pulled the driver from that car, hurriedly apologising as he continued to chuck most of their things out the window at them before the cop sirens start pervading his music, and he had to floor it again, swerving to avoid the other car he’d just dumped, then driving across the highway and handbrake turning to head back in the direction he’d just fled from.

The song felt accusing as it played out, and as he swerved to avoid the caltrops being laid across the road, he gripped the wheel so tight he was white-knuckled. He pulled up next to the wreck that had been the original getaway vehicle, unbuckling and clambering to get out the passenger side. The main police force chasing them would be back soon—he pulled out the emergency pistol they’d given him and tried not to wince as he shot at the cops watching over the wreck. The bodies of the Fake AH were strewn across the ground, burnt and mangled. He choked back bile, skidding over to Michael’s body that was hanging out the backseat of the car. His eyes watered at the acrid stinking of burnt leather jacket and tugged him out so he could drag him into the backseat. As he yanked Geoff across the road next, he wondered if he’d jinxed himself by keeping the orange and purple hair instead of dyeing it to something new.

He managed to drag most of the unconscious bodies of the Fake AH Crew into the back of the car, and he helped the actually-conscious Ryan into the passenger seat. Jeremy skittered back into the car, trying not to feel guilty as he buckled in and Ryan blearily asked him where Ray was in the pile of possibly-dead-but-hopefully-alive bodies that were stacked unceremoniously in the back. He didn’t answer as he pulled away from the wreck, ramming on the accelerator as he drove through a gap in the police blockade so he wouldn’t have to say that he hadn’t seen Ray’s body on the road to drag him into the car.

This was the job that would finish paying off his debt. He just needed to get them to the penthouse and leave his part of the cash behind, and then he was done with the Fake AH. Had it been different circumstances, maybe he would’ve wanted to stay. But as he tore through the city of Los Santos to the sound of I Want To Break Free, he could think of nothing else than the fact that he was getting on the next flight back to Boston and he was dyeing his hair back to brown.

When the car pulled up to the building the penthouse was in, Jeremy put the car in park (ignoring the sound of wailing sirens getting louder), put the bag of money on Ryan’s lap, and then bolted for his own car and joined traffic as a law-abiding citizen.

The police sirens never got any louder as Jeremy pulled away, and he refused to look in the rear-view mirror to see what happened to the crew. He went home, washed the blood off his face, dyed his hair brown with a shitty box hair dye, packed up his stuff, wrote a hasty letter to Matt and Trevor, stuck it on the fridge with a magnet, and then drove to the airport. He probably looked like a fucking wreck as he boarded the plane a couple hours later, but no one asked questions.

He looked down at his scratched-up iPod and hit play. He let Tequila play him out as he watched the safety demonstration.

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this in a day and i've been listening to a playlist for this that consists of a lot of the baby driver soundtrack. also i don't know what jeremy's actual music taste is so My City Now. i'm just surprised more acdc didn't end up in here lmao
> 
> i hope y'all enjoyed this and i hope it made sense bc it's 1am but i wanted to finish this now. writing this was fun  
> you can heckle me on tumblr @ zenyattta


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